


Just the Right Type

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Balin is done with Thorin and Dwalin's shit, Bearded Women, Being Balin is suffering, Dwalin's glorious flashback mohawk, Dwarves, F/M, Family, Femdom, Genderswap, Implied Sexual Content, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for hobbit kink. Prompt: Bofur/Dwalin, Bofur likes big, strong women.  So when he meets Dwalin he falls head over heels for her.</p>
<p>Bonus points<br/>#1: Dwalin looks and acts exactly like he does in the movie: bald, tattooed head and all.<br/>#2: If the more Dwalin uses her strength and height against Bofur the more turned on he gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Right Type

**Author's Note:**

> Also features: the epic bromance of Thorin and Dwalin, long-suffering Balin, jokingly overprotective and ridiculous Fili and Kili and Dori's inability to restrain his mothering to Ori.

Sometimes people just have a type. Some go for blue eyes or dark hair. Nice thick beard groomed with care. A dedication to their craft. Generous nature. Opposites can attract (well, maybe not too opposite, Bofur can't imagine ever wanting to go for an elf) or you want someone that'll complement you. Having a type is natural, normal and healthy. If Bofur's type just happens to be a little bit on the rare side then that sits just fine with him thank you Bifur and Bombur. He's already fed up with the looks they like to aim at his back and the way they wonder if his cheerful nature is covering for the brooding or heartbreak they seem to think he should be feeling. Really, is it too beyond the norm for someone to just get on with things as best any of them can without sighing dramatically like an elf over it? Apparently it is because when they turn up as part of Thorin's company they're about as bad as Dori although – and he has no idea how given that one of them has a bloody axe blade in his head and the other is, well, poor, fat Bombur who eats cheese by the block – they're at least subtle. Because Bofur's type? Well it's very rare. Because he likes dwarf women who are rare enough as it is.  
  
Of course that's not just it.  
  
He likes his women to be bigger than him. (There were a few disastrous tries with intrigued human women but they were too soft for his liking, very very lovely though, especially that one tavern wench, aye she was a truly lovely lass but just not what he was looking for in the end.) And stronger. Dwarf women are just as strong as the men and depending on the trade, they can be stronger than some of the men too. But as things stand now they're not always interested or indeed easy to find. Bifur tries to sympathise in his own special way and that's by way of a carving of what he thinks of as Bofur's type.  
  
Bombur has to get between them when it ends about as well as expected but Bifur is remarkably easygoing for someone who went through what he went through and in the end they're pals again, laughing and joking, off for an adventure.  
  
If Bofur just so happens to have a little more swing in his step than usual then it's because there's free beer on this quest they're going on. It has absolutely nothing at all whatsoever to do with the rumours about one of their company. Who is big and strong. With tattoos. And more weapons than any one dwarf should be able to carry at one time. Bearded, muscular, one ear like a ragged tomcat's. Nope, that is neither here nor there.

* * *

  
  
It's not easy being Dwalin's older brother. Not that it was ever easy when she would go tearing around Erebor with him being sent after her, especially not when she and Thorin decided to get into the armoury and play dragon slayers as dwarflings with real weapons.  
  
Balin still has twin scars on his shins from that. Dwalin still likes to bring it up when she's had a few and whenever anyone asks Balin much about his sister then he says she fell down the stairs and landed on her head one too many times. He doesn't even want to know what she and Thorin were thinking when she ended up with that hair of hers that she kept until Moria and the loss of the king.  
  
So when Dori – really, no wonder Nori is light-fingered and Ori so nervous with that mother henning, sometimes Balin half-wonders if Dori's forgotten that they're dwarves – takes him aside at Bag End and starts to prattle on about eyes and Bofur and his sister's honour Balin laughs so hard that it hurts. It isn't the first time it's happened but he'll never understand why _anyone_ asks about him looking after his sister's honour. She's a big girl, bigger than him, and one of the fiercest warriors of their people yet they still insist on him trying to take care of her as though she's a little girl or even a princess. She sleeps with her two axes for Mahal's sake. Even named the bloody things Grasper and Biter like one would war hounds. Or children. Difficult to tell with Dwalin really.  
  
“I know Bofur has a good heart,” Dori says, wringing his hands, “truly, I mean no disrespect to him or his line at all but she is your younger sister, you have a duty to protect her.”  
  
“Dori,” Balin replies, getting to his feet to speak with Thorin who has a twinkle in his eye – no doubt he and Dwalin will snigger over this at some point because a little part of them has never grown past being a pain in Balin's backside when they're together, not that he would ever begrudge either of them a chance to be who they might have been had Erebor not been taken from them – letting out the kind of sigh one can only produce when they've lived their who life with Dwalin. “What makes you think that my sister is the one who'll need protecting?”  
  
He lets Dori think of that what he will, shaking his head at Thorin before he can even start.  


* * *

  
  
Bofur is in love. Head over heels, giddy as a child, grinning like a loon. Bifur is gesturing rudely but he's only dimly aware of it because he can't take his eyes off her. They end up across from each other at the table, his eyes watching her every move because it'd be a crime not to behold her. One of her hands could crush his wrists even without the aid of the wicked metal that covers them which is just a bad line of thought to think about at the table because it leads to him wondering where else she has metal. There's metal in her ears, well what remains of her ears and is it wrong that he _badly_ wants to know the story behind that? A scar cutting down her face and he can read the meaning behind her tattoos, the ones he can see.  
  
It's terribly presumptuous to think he'll be allowed to look and touch learn but Bofur has a certain charm that allows him to get away with such things.  
  
As long as Bifur and Bombur don't give the game away. And as long as no one takes offence – Balin's got a kindly smile but they've all heard the stories and Bofur has no desire to be on Balin's bad side anymore than he'd wish anyone to piss off Bifur or Bombur. He's only half-listening to the discussion going on around him because he loves Gloin, he really does, but if he has to hear one more soppy story about Gimli then he'll scream. Besides, Dwalin keeps looking over at him, assessing and he doesn't know whether he should sit up straight and try to look impressive or if he should just wink and grin. Tricky business this, trying to decide if you're going to go on with the whole courting business or if you'll just tell tradition and custom to go bugger themselves for a bit because it's been a long time and there is a fine specimen of everything a dwarf woman should be over there who just so happens to be leering at him across the table.  
  
(He doesn't notice that Fíli and Kíli are watching and nudging each other whenever Dwalin asks a question about whatever ridiculous tale they're spinning. That's a mistake he'll pay for later, in a good natured way of course where only his pride will be wounded.)  
  
After they've cleared the place up and with their prospective burglar to be – he'll need to apologise because he does feel dreadful about making him faint when he was only trying to help – resting with the noise of catching up he finds himself cornered in a hall. She's even bigger than he thought up close like this and he lets himself be crowded back and into the wall.  
  
“You know how to be quiet?” She rumbles and he can only nod, eyes wide. “Good, once that lot pack up for bed we'll find a place.”  
  
She stalks off. Bofur isn't disappointed because she's got a cracking arse. He's confused about the bluntness but maybe that's a warrior thing or just a Dwalin thing. He'd be quite happy with it being a Dwalin thing, he thinks as he's suddenly being grabbed by Nori to join in whatever conversation apparently needs his input.

* * *

  
  
“Still being charged with trying to protect dear Dwalin,” Thorin teases. If Thorin weren't his king then sometimes Balin could really consider hitting him.  
  
“Oh don't you start, I could blame you, you were always a terrible influence on her and your sister no better.”  
  
“My sister ended up a respectable women,” Thorin counters but he's still grinning.  
  
“Aye respectable woman with two hooligans.”  
  
“They're young.” A shadow passes over Thorin's face as he says it and Balin knows that he worries about them and that there is a part of Thorin that would rather they stay tucked away safe in Ered Luin, smithing and chasing skirts but they are his heirs. They are reclaiming their birthright as much as Thorin is and they're not green whelps as much as they might call them such. “They are allowed to be young in the ways so many never were, we will need the halls of Erebor to ring with laughter once more.”  
  
Balin gives Thorin's arm a squeeze. They've known each other so many years, they've known devastation and desolation together and the fire in Thorin's eyes this night is not from bitterness, rage or pain. There's determination, that old dwarven pride many of them have forgotten and a fragile hope too. “Dwalin loves your nephews, I remember how proudly she spoke of Fíli and Kíli when you sent them off for training.”  
  
“Fíli nursed quite the love for her.”  
  
“Our chance to help secure the line of Durin cruelly dashed.”  
  
Thorin tries to keep a straight face but he snorts and lets out a rumbling laugh around the same time a laugh bubbles through from the kitchen, Nori up to some trick for the amusement of the nephews. Thorin's smile is fond and he excuses himself. Balin follows, watching his sister and Bofur. Poor fool, he has no idea what he's in for with that one.

* * *

  
  
With or without the hobbit they'll be off in the morn as planned with memories of Erebor echoing, all the old wounds close to the surface in way they haven't been in years, a bruise thought healed that still throbs when touched. The youngest of them don't know all of it, not really. Dwalin doesn't know what Dori and Nori have taught Ori but that isn't her concern – aye she'll help the boy, keep him safe because there are too few of them and that is what they do. It's Fíli and Kíli that she'll watch over just that little bit more, Thorin's heirs that she and he have taught, taught them war and the glories of great halls but they won't understand until they first face down evil for themselves. War is what she taught, tracking, scouting, hunting along with Thorin who taught them smithcraft too. One day soon they will help to shape Erebor anew with shoulders forged of iron and battle made strong with the weight of expectation. They'll survive though even if Kíli still prefers that bow of his because they've taught them all they know and her and Thorin are still as sharp and strong as ever. Her and Thorin pack them off to the guest room Thorin has claimed, ignoring protests and complaints.  
  
“Listen to your uncle, this is the last time you'll get to sleep through the night with a roof over your heads for a long time,” she cautions and off they go in the end. Thorin lingers in the door – he'll be first up and if he doesn't go to bed at the same time then his heirs will spend half the night gossiping and planning mischief. She and Thorin know that well, Dwalin from training and Thorin from helping to raise them and later living with them when they went around smithing from town to town.  
  
“Never understood why they're more likely to listen to you in the very end,” Thorin complains with folded arms.  
  
“I remind them of their mother,” Dwalin jokes, “we both know that Dís is not a woman to ever be trifled with.” She broke Dwalin's nose more than once and two fingers when they arm wrestled. “Best get some sleep yourself.”  
  
“Aye, I will. Don't you keep this place awake half the night.”  
  
Once she might have pretended to be shocked, when they were young and foolish, shoving him. Now it's a lecherous grin. “You know me.”  
  
“Unfortunately I do. Sleep well.”  
  
“You too,” and they clasp forearms as Thorin opens the door again prompting an end to the whispers and giggles of his nephews.  
  
Dwalin's a fan of their mischief so long as it's not directed at her.  
  
The hobbit hole is growing quiet now with everyone sloping off to find a place to sleep but there's still ale and Dwalin is used to getting by on little sleep so she pours another mug and then another when she hears footsteps approaching. Dwalin has never had a type. She likes strength that's true but not always the physical kind. Strength of character matters to her and despite her grim appearance she likes a good laugh as much as the next dwarf, in fact, that tends to be what she goes for. Sharp as a flint, clever tongues (a man with quick wits has never let her down in the past) and cheek, that's what she goes for. Bofur might look ridiculous but that's really down to the hat she thinks and he'll not be needing it for what she has planned unless there are truly cold, bitter and most likely rainy nights on the road.  
  
Once he joins her, hovering an arms distance away she offers him the other ale and he takes it, downing half in one go before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. She drinks her ale slowly, his eyes on her until she's done, arms folded expectantly.  
  
“Just going to look all night?”  
  
“Nothing wrong with enjoying the view is there?” There's a hint of nervousness behind the bantering tone as she advances on him, backing him up until he's against the wall.  
  
“There is when there's a lot more to enjoy,” she growls and the noise he makes is raw and hungry and needy, just the kind of noise she likes to hear. She has to lean down to kiss him, one broad thigh between his and immediately he presses against her until her hands hold him flat to the wall but that just makes him grind down as much as he can. Even though they both know they'll have to be quiet she breaks the kiss just to hear the sound he makes. “Is this what you like?” She asks, “someone else taking charge?” Her answer is a breathless moan and vigorous nod of the head. His hands are mapping her broad back as best they can beneath her armour and she lets go of his hips to pry them away. He swears in Khuzdul under his breath and she kisses him again, laughing. “Aye, that's what you like.”  
  
Bofur doesn't even try to argue, not when he's flushed already just from this, rutting against her thigh when she pins his arms high enough above his head to make him grunt with discomfort briefly before she applies just enough pressure to have him biting down on his lower lip. Her free hand she brings to his throat, thumb at one side, fingers the other, no pressure because she's not about to show off so early on in this adventure but she notes the way his breath hitches, heart racing beneath her fingers. The hand slides down a chest not as defined as her own but still strong, flat where hers has curves that are bound for comfort beneath her armour, over his stomach and then to his groin, cupping him as she lets him thrust up into her touch, ready to tease when she hears footsteps. She's known that tread for many a year as well as the little cough that is now just amused because if the son and daughter of Fundin know each other well and Balin is hardly surprised by what she gets up to anymore.  
  
“Sister.”  
  
Dwalin sighs because this is what Balin always does sooner or later though his blushes and horrified squawks are long gone. Pity, they were always hilarious. Bofur makes a strangled noise and looks as though he wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole because there's no mistaking the hard line of his cock in Dwalin's hand even beneath his trousers or the fact that his wrists are pinned to the wall high above his head in one of hers. She has at least removed her knuckle dusters.  
  
“Brother,” she strives for cordial but it comes off as faintly murderous.  
  
“Remember we've an early start and a long ride ahead of us. Don't hurt the lad.”  
  
“I make no promises, besides, he looks,” and she tips her head back, looks him up and down and then finally looks over to her brother with a shrug of her broad shoulders, “sturdy enough.”  
  
“If it wasn't such a ridiculous thing then I would swear you truly did spring from a hole in the ground Dwalin,” Balin huffs before stalking off to whatever spot he's claimed for the night.  
  
“Still with me Bofur?” Dwalin asks as soon as her brother is gone and he nods, clearing his throat as he tries to overcome his embarrassment and shock of being found out so blatantly – he has no idea that Balin has walked in on things much less innocent than this – and not chewed out for it.  
  
“Aye, aye, I'm grand,” he replies in a tone that's falsely casual. But his cock is still hard in her hand and his hips twitch forward. “Just trying to remember where we were headed, that's all.”  
  
“I think,” she releases his wrists and lets go of his cock, his groan of loss sending heat through her but it's the enthusiastic moan as she shoves him to his knees, one of her hands now on his shoulder and the other cupping the back of his neck, “that we were right here.”  
  
Bofur has clever fingers to work open the ties of her heavy trousers and the buckles of her belts. Once he's settled between her thighs with clothing out of the way for the moment he sets to work proving that he's got a tongue to match.

* * *

  
  
“Dwalin,” Fíli begins, urging his pony forward to take up position on Dwalin's left, Kíli doing the same on the right, “my brother and I,”  
  
“Well we've got the sharpest eyes,” Kíli continues and from the way the conversation goes then they've planned every word of this out in advance.  
  
“And we happen to have noticed eyes on you.”  
  
“And we want you to know that we love and respect you,”  
  
“Almost as much as we love and respect Thorin and our mother,”  
  
“So it would be remiss of us,”  
  
“Terribly, _terribly_ remiss of us,”  
  
“If we didn't have a word or two to say,”  
  
“About the eyes on you.”  
  
Dwalin somehow manages not to laugh or even let her lips twitch, looking from one brother to the other. They're good lads, she tells herself but a bit swept up in it all, trying to prove themselves in the eyes of the company and most especially their uncle.  
  
“Aye?” It's a prompt for them to keep going because if nothing else she'll get a damn good laugh out of this.  
  
“You're a warrior,” Kíli starts this time with his earnest eyes looking too serious for that young face of his that doesn't have more than a covering of stubble.  
  
“Our uncle's staunchest friend,” and back to Fíli. She wonders how tired their mother and Thorin must get of this seeing as they're the ones subjected to the back and forth most often.  
  
“And we would never think it is our place to defend your honour.”  
  
“But we're good smiths,”  
  
“Handy with shovels,”  
  
“All manner of sharp weapons,”  
  
“Not to mention arrows,”  
  
“So if he ever,”  
  
“ _Ever_ ,”  
  
“Dares to do one thing wrong,” they speak in unison at the end the way they did as children from what Dwalin remembers of visits whenever Thorin was tasked with babysitting in the absence of their mother, “then we'll make sure his end is horrible, undignified and that they'll be no trace of him.”  
  
Dwalin's laugh startles the birds from the trees as she spurs her pony on. This level of idiocy has to be shared with their blood – the lads will be stuck with pony duty for the whole journey at this rate. She looks over her shoulder to regard Bofur who is staring at the backs of Thorin's nephews with alarm and horror. It's going to be a good trip and hopefully Bofur's nerves will last throughout it.  
  
Balin sighs heavily enough that Bilbo asks if everything is alright.  
  
“Laddie, count yourself lucky you've got no sisters.”  
  
Despite the horse hair, the lack of handkerchiefs and not really knowing what he's let himself in for beyond very possible incineration, Bilbo laughs.


End file.
